When Lily Met John
by Cat of Interest
Summary: This is just something for fun, a little idea I had and decided, "what the heck? I'll publish it." It's a story about a girl in New York City, meeting and eventually dating comedian and TV host, John Oliver. Rating may change depending on what I decide to do with it and where it goes ;)
1. Chapter 1

_**This is something I'd figure I'd try, just for fun. I've recently discovered John Oliver and man, he is cute. So I decided to write this. I hope it's okay. I would love to hear what you think of it, so please share! Not really sure where this is going, but we'll see!**_

_**Thanks for reading!**_

I was rushing off with my hands full of papers and a cardboard cup holder with four large lattes or cappuccinos or whatever exactly these things were. My trench coat waved open in the breeze created by the taxis whizzing down the street, making my stomach cold where my shirt had ridden up over the waist band of my skirt.

If I had a free hand, I would have checked my phone just then, but I didn't really need to. I knew I'd be late.

When the light changed, I darted across the street in my heels. My feet hurt already.

Just as I reached the curb, my shoes hitting the sidewalk on the ether side, still rushing, I hit something head on, square in my chest and theirs, causing the papers to fly and the cardboard holder to fly upward, hitting my chest, spilling the hot, dark brown liquid all over my shirt as the cups crumbled between my chest and that of the person who had hit me. Then I fell on to my butt, on the sidewalk, my legs splayed out in front of me, and between them, my bright pink, full butt undies likely on complete display.

"Son of a bitch!" I cried, smacking my hand angrily off the pavement.

"I am so, so sorry!" a voice above me cried out. "Are you alright?" There was a strong British accent attached to that voice.

I pushed my blonde hair from my face and looked up. Standing above me, his shoulders bent down towards me, his brown eyes wide behind large, dark framed glasses sitting above a prominent nose. He had dark hair with a square haircut and a square face. He wore a suit with a black jacket over his suit jacket.

"I'm fine," I snapped.

He offered me a hand, which I did not take and instead pushed myself up on my own. I wiped my hands down my shirt, which had gone from white to brown.

"Again," he said, "I am so sorry. Is there anything I can do?"

"I'm going to be late."

"It's all my fault. Here, let me help you." He bent and started gathering the papers filled with designs and color swatches of new spring colors for lipstick.

I sighed and bent and copied him gather the pages.

"You work for a makeup company?" he asked slowly.

"Yeah. That and the worst boss imaginable."

"Oh. I didn't mean to cause this much trouble." His hand brushed mine and he pulled away quickly. His skin had been quite warm. "I see you every day, walking," he continued.

I said nothing, just compiled the pages.

He handed me the stack he had put together and we both straightened up. "I can take you to Starbucks and buy new coffees," he offered.

"Those weren't from Starbucks. They were from some new trendy place. I don't even know what they were exactly."

"I'll replace them. And your shirt." He looked my torso up and down.

I shifted the papers to better cover my chest. "It wasn't that expensive."

"Well, if you wanted to give it to me now to go find an exact match…"

I rolled my eyes.

"I am really sorry," he repeated.

"Yeah, you said."

"I've seen you walk by this way every day, and I…well…" he stuffed his hands in his pockets. "You're very pretty."

I felt heat rise to my cheeks even though I didn't want it there.

"If the circumstances were better, it would have been nice meeting you…? I hope that came out right, because I'm really not sure."

I gave him a small nod. I wasn't sure exactly what to say. "It was nice…banging into you." I shrugged a shoulder. "I really do have to go though now." I checked my phone. It was almost nine. I was going to be late.

"Would you maybe want to grab dinner sometime? Please, just to make this all up to you."

"I…I-" I bit down on my lip. "I have to go, I'm sorry." I gave him what I hoped was a sufficiently apologetic smile. Then I gently slipped past his shoulder and started off down the street at a brisk walk, towards my job and away from the awkward encounter with a man who I wasn't sure I wanted to really see again.


	2. Chapter 2

I made it to my job where I was promptly yelled at and scolded for being late, not having coffee in cups, and instead all down my front, staining my shirt.

But I made it through the day. I ran around checking makeup swatches, quality, color, formula. I tested new colors and old ones. I picked certain things for the spring collection that could go through to our boss for her final check. I sniffed different scents and pooled marketing chats together.

The entire time I was working, even though I did not like it, thoughts of this morning and the man I had bumped into kept creeping into my mind. I tried to push his face away, his large eyes framed by his glasses, soft and caring.

But I didn't want that. Not now, not ever really. I just wanted to focus on my career and everything that went along with that.

The next few days, I didn't see him at all. He claimed he saw me every morning on my walk to work, but after I had hit him, I didn't see him at all. On Friday, there was still nothing. I told myself to just be happy about it, but I found there was a small pit in my stomach that wished he'd pop up in the crowd along the sidewalk.

I got to work on time that morning, looking forward to just finishing the day and going home. I took off my coat when I reached the closet near the reception desk and noticed there was some piece of paper stuffed into one of my pockets. I grabbed it, wondering what it could be.

It was a flyer with a small ticket stapled to it. I read it over twice and I was still confused. I was about to throw it in the recycle, brushing it off as something someone had stuffed into my pockets for advertising, very pushy and almost creepy advertising. When I saw the back and read the scrawling hand writing on it, I realized.

_I am sorry if this way of reaching you is too forward, but I had to take the chance. I will be performing tonight at the Broadway Comedy Club, at 8:00pm, opening for someone more famous and important than me (the guy whose name is bigger than mine on the flyer), and I would really like to see you there. I understand if you reject my invitation, but I could not pass up the chance to see you again. If you were to give me this one chance, even if it's only to make up for what I did on Tuesday, I would be incredibly happy. I will be looking for you in the audience. If you're not there, I promise not to contact you again in any way. If you can't make it, but don't want me to ignore you, I will give you my phone number. _

_I really do hope to see you._

_Yours,_

_John Oliver_

_P.S. I've only given you one ticket, so you cannot bring a date. Sorry. _

I read it over twice. His number was printed at the very bottom in the same slanted writing. I flipped the flyer back over and read it again, finally understanding.

So his name was John Oliver and he was a comedian. The flyer was promoting some man I never heard of and then in one corner, John Oliver was written in writing that wasn't as big or flashy.

I bit my lip. I wasn't sure what to do, but after eating dinner in my little apartment in Hell's Kitchen, I found myself digging through my closet for something to wear, after looking up the Broadway Comedy Club online to figure out what I should wear. It seemed like almost like the Carnegie Hall of stand up.

Wearing a navy blue, long sleeved dress trimmed around the neckline with black lace, I walked east in my booties to the Theatre District. I saw the flashing lights and large lit up sign with tonight's show on it when I reached the building.

Inside the doors, I gave an usher my ticket who informed me that not only did I have a great seat, I also received free drinks all night.

Was Mr. Oliver's plan to get me drunk?

The main room had a large stage and many tables around it, tiered upwards as they moved back from the stage. I had a small table right on the first tier, off to side slightly. A small candle burnt in the middle, next to a drink menu and wine list. I ordered a Crown and Coke and sipped it slowly until the lights dimmed. Music played and an announcer came on calling out that comedian John Oliver, straight from Britain, was about to be on stage.

A spot light appeared and out from stage right walked the man I had banged into and knocked me to the side walk. He walked to the middle of the stage and took the mic from the stand and introduced himself. As he started talking, his eyes scanned the crowd near the stage and I saw them come to rest on where I sat and I watched his face light up with a grin that went all the way to his eyes. He brushed a bit of his dark hair off his forehead and then turned away with a new enthusiasm as he went on delivering his routine.

After seeing that smile, I was suddenly very happy with my decision to be sitting where I was.


	3. Chapter 3

Sitting in the front of the Broadway Comedy Club, I found myself laughing enough that tears were pouring down my cheeks. I dabbed at them, hoping that my makeup wouldn't streak.

He was actually quite funny. I wasn't sure that I'd rate him up with Jeff Dunham, but John was funny. I couldn't deny that. Half the time I was bent double, holding my stomach that was sore from laughter by the end of the night.

John wore a black suit with a blue gingham shirt and brown tie. I hadn't seen him wear anything else. He appeared so comfortable, so natural, and everyone loved how he made fun of the country we lived him, that he had moved to, in his perfect British accent.

When the show ended, after John took a bow and the lights came on for a small intermission before the main act, I got up from my seat and left a few small bills as a tip for the waiter who brought my drink. Before I could start away from the table, a female usher came up to me, her hands folded in front of her.

"Excuse me, Miss?"

I looked up at her. "Hmm?"

"Mr. Oliver was wondering if you would like to meet him backstage."

"Backstage?"

She nodded.

"Okay, sure."

"Please follow me." She led me around to the side of the room and then back through a small hall guarded by two men in black security shirts.

When we got behind the stage, there was a cluster of people, pushing back and forth around in the small space, brushing past me, calling to each other. We made it through them to where a small ground crowded together, talking loudly and laughing. In the middle of the crowd, stood John, his tie loosened slightly, the top bottom of his collar undone, a water bottle in his hand. He was smiling and laughing along with the two men and one woman. He took a drink from the Aquafina bottle, over which his eyes fell on me and widened. Right away he took the bottle from his lips, twisted the top closed and started towards me, giving one of the men a pat on his shoulder.

"You decided to come!" John was grinning, showing off his far less than perfect teeth. "I wasn't expecting you, to be honest." He stood close to me in the small space backstage, with the bright lights against the black around us. The smell of light cologne mixed with soap, and a touch of sweat from John's brow, wafted between us. I was close enough to him to see a stray eyebrow hair that I would love to yank out.

I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, feeling the heat in my cheeks at how close he was standing to me. I wasn't sure what it was, but funny men, and John was definitely funny, were that much more attractive.

"You look absolutely beautiful," he said, bowing his head slightly, his eyes still peering into mine from behind his glasses and under dark lashes.

My lips twisted into a bashful smile. "Thank you. Your show was really good."

"You liked it?"

"I laughed pretty hard."

"I'm sorry, this probably sounds stupid, but I still don't know your name."

"Lily," I offered. "Lily Crane."

He smiled again. "Well, Lily, I'm not really ready to say goodbye to you just yet. If you'd like, maybe you and I could grab a drink?"

"I had one before your show."

His face fell.

"But what I would really enjoy would enjoy would be something to eat. A snack maybe?"

"Whatever you fancy, my dear."


	4. Chapter 4

There was a back door entrance where the comedians came and went from the club. With our coats on, John led me out and into the small alley way, his hand on the small of my back until we reached the street. He let his hand fall to his side as we headed north.

"I know a place-a little bakery," he told me. "I've gotten things there a few times after the show. It's very good, if you'd like to go there."

"Sure. That would be great. Perfect actually." I turned to him, the reflection of the city lights shining off his glasses, and gave him a small smile.

"You really did like the show?" he asked me again. "You're not just saying that?"

"I did! I was crying half the time. My makeup looks like shit now, thanks."

He chuckled. "You're welcome. And no, it doesn't."

I shook my head. "Like you would know."

"I would know. Maybe I'm actually an expert." He stopped then at a red door next to a window lined with beautiful cakes. He opened the door for me and again put a hand on my lower back as I walked through.

The bakery was small, with one long counter along the wall with glass display cases filled with any sort of baked good you could imagine. There were a few small tables against the other wall and a TV in the corner. An older man sat under the TV, his neck craned to look up at it, a newspaper in his hands.

"Get anything you'd like," John told me, his hand still touching my coat.

I ordered a slice of peppermint cheesecake and a hot chocolate. John got chocolate cake. We sat near the window as we ate, watching the people walk by on the street as we talked.

"Do you normally go to comedy shows?" he asked me, diving his fork into the huge slice of cake on the plate before him.

"Sometimes. Not usually through. I don't really have someone to go with. It's the kind of thing you do with other people."

"There is no way in hell that you don't have someone to go with."

"I'm serious! I don't know a lot of people here." I put a forkful of cheesecake in my mouth. It was delicious. "This is really good," I said, still chewing.

"You don't?" John questioned, still clearly on that topic.

"No. I'm not from here. I'm from Detroit. Farmington Hills, technically."

"Oh, really?"

"Yeah, so don't talk any shit about it there. It's not like people say. I'm the whitest little blonde girl ever and I've walked downtown without fear. I've driven down Seven Mile with my windows rolled down and haven't been shot yet."

John snorted a small laugh. "Why did you move here?"

"Why did you?"

"I asked you first."

"For a job." I shrugged. "I went to Paul Mitchell beauty school and then I applied anywhere and everywhere. I want to be a makeup artist for things like Fashion Week or for photo shoots. I'm assisting right now until something I would rather do comes up. Here is really the best place for that. Your turn."

"Same thing, really. I'm doing much better as a stand-up comic here than I was back home. I'm making more money and it goes farther. Cost of living in England is very expensive. Again, just like you, New York is the best place for me to work and do what I want to do."

"Why did you want to be a comedian?"

He grinned. "That's a bit of an annoying question, you know."

"People ask me all the time. Why makeup? What about it do you like?" I shrugged. "I like the art. I like creating art that someone can wear. Clothes are so much more…trivial and benign. You wear them on your body. Not that I don't like fashion, it's just that you can change an entire face with some products. It's so personal and intimate."

"Jesus." With his chin rested in his palm, John looked at me with glassy eyes.

I narrowed my eyes at him. "What? Why are you looking at me like that?"

"That was the single greatest speech of why someone works the job they do that I have ever heard."

"You made my question demeaning." I shrugged a shoulder.

"No, I didn't. I said it was annoying. And your little speech there makes me think you get that question too, and sometimes you don't like it."

I kept looking at him. I felt the conversation begin to get heavier than before.

"You seemed a bit defensive of your career."

"Some assholes don't always respect what I do."

"I understand the feeling. When I told my parents I wanted to be a comedian, they laughed harder than I've ever been able to make anyone laugh at one of my shows. To answer your question, I wanted to be a comedian because I love making people laugh, and on purpose. I learned, eventually, that when people are laughing because you're the one making fun of yourself or something else, it's a lot better than when they're laughing strictly at you."

"Sounds like some underlying angst there."

"Oh and you don't have any pent up anger."

"People think makeup is girly and shallow. It's not. And my family wasn't supportive either." I realized I felt a bit tense talking about how much the majority of my family disagreed with my career choice. But who better to have this discussion with than someone who was in the same situation and knew what that felt like? I hardly knew John, but I told myself to just try and open up to him. It was okay just to talk as we were. He had been so kind towards me, so soft, he wouldn't drive an old knives any deeper.

"People think my career is a joke. No pun intended."

I chuckled at that.

"As soft and wussy as it sounds," he continued, "I hated how much people bullied others at school. I was laughed at, like everyone else, and then I realized how to cope, I guess. If I beat them to it, or if I make them laugh at something else, anything, it takes away from me. If I can beat people to their own joke about me, I win, not them. I figured that out when I was young and it just made sense to make people laugh ever since. What other job could be this rewarding?"

"Well I like it. I think it's a good job and you're good at it."

"That's a lot better than I had hoped for." He smiled at me, bashfully, innocently, and I felt very aware of my heart inside my chest.


	5. Chapter 5

John and I had stayed inside the bakery well after we had finished eating. Every time John had made me laugh, I watched his face light up with a grin and I felt my inside go warm.

The man in the corner had left and the guy behind the counter came around and started sweeping up. I began to yawn. I was tired, but I didn't really want to leave. But John and I headed out from the bakery before it closed.

"Where do you live?" John asked me, taking up his place on my right side.

"Hell's Kitchen."

"Did you take a cab here?"

"No, I just walked."

"I'll walk you home then."

"Where do you live?"

"Down around Soho. I've got a little place to myself there. I had really hoped I wouldn't have to get a roommate moving here."

"It's nice down there."

"It's alright, especially for right now."

I guided John from Midtown to my brick building in Hell's Kitchen, on top of a small food court that I ate at way too often. The neon signs flashed a glare onto John's glasses, promoting all night service for Mario's Italian food.

"This is me," I said, pointing up. "That's my cat in the window." Three stories up sat my black cat, Salem, her green eyes peering down at us.

John looked up. "He's watching me."

"She."

"Sorry," he said to the window. He turned back down to look at me. "I am really glad you came to see my show tonight. I honestly didn't think you would come." He bent his head. "I thought you'd be appalled by me stuffing a flying with my phone number on it in your pocket."

"I kind of was."

He laughed.

"But I could appreciate the creativity."

"I wore a hat one day so you wouldn't see me, as stupid as that was."

"It worked. It wasn't that stupid."

Again the bashful look. "Since you have my number, it would only be fair if I got yours so that I could call you tomorrow."

"I can call you."

"I don't trust you, sorry."

I laughed as John pulled his phone from his pocket. I rattled off my number as he created a new contact for me.

"Thank you," I said softly. "For everything tonight. I had a good time."

John smiled, his lips closed. "I'm glad to hear that. I thought if I ever wanted you to see my show, I'd have to tie you up and drag you there."

I shook my head. "No, no. I'm glad you invited me."

"Good. I'll give a call tomorrow then, if you don't mind."

"What if I do mind?"

"Doesn't matter." Then, "But you don't do you?"

I laughed. "No, no I don't."

"Alright. I'll let you go then, because your cat is really eyeballing me right now."

"She's probably hungry." I looked up to see her still looking down at us, frozen in the window, almost invisible in the dark. When I looked back down to John, and as soon as I did so, he had turned his head and planted his lips gently on my cheek. My legs felt stiff and my hands fat, but as he pulled away, quickly as he had pushed in, I felt my heart sink a little bit.

"I'll talk to you tomorrow, Lily." He stuffed his hands into his pockets.

"Okay, goodnight." I pulled open the door to my building and started up the stairs. When I unlocked the door to my apartment, Salem was at the door, winding herself around my feet. I dared to ignore her for a minute as I hurried to the window and watched John walk south, his hands still deep in his pockets, a smile on his face.


End file.
